


What Is, What Was, What Is To Come

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Background Noct/Luna, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-21 00:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14273328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: EDIT: No longer updating, but a simple summary of the whole plot is now located at the end of chapter two.Ignis Scientia is a Prophet, devoted to the royal line of Lucis.The arrival of an Ambassador from Niflheim proves to be more troublesome than he initially supposes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is mostly just some setup for the AU in general, though Ardyn and Ignis do meet and form impressions of each other (even if Ignis does not physically see him). I'm fond of added high-fantasy/religious elements to stories, so here we are. Prophets it is.

Once every few hundred years now (though the frequency had been higher at the beginning of the royal line), a prophet was born in Lucis. Sons and daughters born in loyalty to the crown, devoted to the success of their kings and queens.  
It had been two-hundred and forty-seven years between the last prophet and the birth of Ignis Scientia, the twenty-third to receive the calling. A long time, by history’s standards.

“By Ifrit’s Light will paths lay bare.”

As they grew older, prophets grew more open to divine revelation. Flames, the catalyst for their Sight, would gradually reveal more and more. Not only glimpses of the future and warnings, but snippets of the past, diverging choice paths, strange impossible circumstances, other’s thoughts, or perhaps the thoughts of alternate selves. Visions and voices would begin to trigger unintentionally, unwanted. Where once an entire pyre would be necessary to See, prophets would gradually come to catch glances in candles, in the reflection of the sun on water. In less than even that.  
The early prophets had often gone mad.  
It seemed human beings, no matter how carefully chosen by the gods, were simply not built to accommodate divine sight indefinitely. But who was anyone to deny the gift bestowed upon them by the gods themselves?  
As a safeguard, a Prophet’s eyes were now covered while not attempting to See, except in private. He could continue to read and relax in his room, to train with other attendants to the young Prince in private sessions. To pursue hobbies in safe spaces.

“I pledge my Sight, in good tidings or ill, in honest service to the line of Lucis, long may you reign.”

“... I-In good tidings or ill, my hall will be your home; this I swear by my blood. Take my mantle as a sign of my protection.”

The mantle in question, more akin to a wide blindfold than a draping cloth (though embroidered beautifully, he’d seen it beforehand), was currently being placed over his eyes and pulled around behind his head. A child’s hands, smaller than his own, were tying it with hesitant motions.

“A little tighter, son.” King Regis, kindly and soft, whispered just loud enough from behind for the two boys to hear. Ignis had to fight the smile threatening to form on his face, keeping the sanctity of the ceremony at the forefront of his mind.

A cane, inlaid with silver and bone, was carefully nudged into his ready hand.

At the age of eight, Ignis officially became Prophet to six-year-old Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prince of Lucis.

\---

The Palace gardens were delightful in the evenings after supper. The air was kept cooler with running fountains, and at this time of year Priest Queen Lunafreya's sylleblossoms filled the breeze with a subtle sweetness.  
Ignis did not need his sight to enjoy his time here. He'd already, many times, snipped flowers to take back to his quarters, to remove his blindfold within the safety of his four walls. For years now he'd taken to drawing and painting; studies of garden flowers, still lifes, and especially of Noctis.  
An odd hobby, for a Prophet. But his King and friend had been impressed at his work, and Ignis had preened at the praise.  
He supposed he still did.  
For all the covering of his eyes most of the time, he made certain to look when he was free of his blindfolds.  
So he knew the gardens and the patches of sylleblossoms from both inference and peeks he'd taken as a child, curiosity winning over tradition. He had more self-control now as a young man, thank the Six.

His past peeks, his memorization of the garden paths, all of it was enough to enjoy a walk uninterrupted.

Or, perhaps, not quite so uninterrupted.

The sound of a strange gait approached, and Ignis let his own feet still. Was that Pelna with a message? 

“Does His Majesty require an audience?”  
The steps had stopped some feet away, keeping the King’s Prophet from his moment of peace in the gardens.  
“I’m certain I wouldn’t know. It’s possible, considering how often he seems to rely on you.” Came the reply, an unhurried low timbre drawling over the words.  
Ignis Scientia frowned behind his blindfold. He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who are you?”

His position allowed him a measure of impudence in the Court, and he exerted it now while he addressed the stranger, voice even and to the point.

“You’re this age’s prophet, Ignis of House Scientia; you tell me.”  
Ignis could sense the smile behind the now lilting voice, a pitch higher than before. Teasing. Theatrical. His own lips pressed thin. As if he hadn’t heard all manner of teasings concerning his foresight a thousand times over. The price of still being young. He was neither a fortune teller or omniscient. But he could play along, even if his voice didn’t warm.

“Step closer, friend.”  
He heard the man do so with an easy jaunt, stopping close but not uncomfortably so. Ignis kept his head lowered as he listened; the swish of silks, the friction of thicker fabric, layers upon layers. A metallic clink. A heavy footfall.  
The man smelled like ash. Dry, unpleasant.  
Something tugged at the back of Ignis’s mind.  
“A priest.”

There was silence for a moment longer than he expected.

“Oh? What makes you say that?” The voice had kept its previous joking tone all the same, but Ignis wondered at its sincerity.  
“Your holy presence, of course.”  
At that the man before him barked a laugh. His mouth did not smell washed.  
Ignis hid his distaste.  
“Why, the King keeps you close for your charm! Where can I find myself a prophet? You’re delightful.”  
“We’re not standard issue. Marry into the Luciian royal family, and try in another two-hundred years.”  
For some reason, that seemed even funnier to the man than the last thing he'd said.  
"Ha! Perhaps I'll give that one a try."  
“Will that be all? I expect the journey from Niflheim has tired you.”  
Ignis was growing exceptionally weary of his ceaseless good humor.

“What gave it away, Prophet of the King?”  
If the man had been surprised, there was no way he could tell.

There were many visiting dignitaries at the Luciian palace now, from all countries. Any number of them had strangers unknown to him as of yet, although it was only the Niflheimir officials that arrived today.  
The solid identifier had been the distinctive jingle of what had to be a Niflheim medal, made there with an alloy of abundant supply thanks to mines near Gralea. No Niflheimir lower government official was without one. All other dignitaries generally had medals of sorts, but none with that particular tinny clink.

The man didn't have to know that. In fact, the man had been rather rude from the start, interrupting him with apparently no other purpose than to waste his time. Ignis tapped his cane impatiently.

"Forgive me. Even if you are not tired, I'm afraid I am. Did you have business with me at all?"  
Ignis heard a huff of air, the only response to the dismissal of his question. It sounded amused.  
"Actually, I was hoping to be pointed towards the Royal Archives. I'm here for cultural studies, you see. I'm to inform my dear lords and ladies back home on how to act and speak with Lucians, among other things."

Ignis' jaw tightened. This man could have asked anyone for directions, and if he was truthful about forming part of a cultural commission, he'd already acted with blatantly intentional insensitivity.  
Truly insufferable.

“The archives,” Ignis began sharply, lifting his cane to point to his left, “are located in the West Wing. You’re certain to find an attendant to assist you in finding it once you’re in the general area. A word of advice, sir. In Lucis, people of reputable standing introduce themselves with their names, even to prophets.”  
His voice had turned cold.

“Ah. I see I’ve been terribly remiss in Lucian manners, then.”  
The man did not sound the least bit regretful or even cowed, but before Ignis could offer an affirmative to his supposition, he felt his free hand unexpectedly being taken in a gentle, calloused touch.

He froze as his hand was raised. Stayed frozen as he felt lips on his knuckles, the scratch of stubble. It was more than a brief touch. It lasted longer than necessary.

“Ambassador Ardyn Izunia, at your humble service.”  
The irreverent drawl had turned quieter, deeper. Personal.

Ignis tore his hand away in a sudden rush, holding back the anger and embarrassment from his face with pure force of will, settling for steeling his jaw in a neutral expression.

“ _Ambassador_.” He managed in clipped parting before turning heel and briskly walking away, towards the East Wing where Ardyn had no business being. He knew the garden paths well enough to not use his cane at all, but he used it now. Not to guide, but to stab at the ground with vehemence at each step.

\---

That night in a sightless dream, a hand caressed his fingers, his palm, his wrist. A quiet laugh rumbled against the pads of his fingers, the scratch of stubble irritating his skin.  
Ignis awoke; warm, aroused, and cursing Niflheim under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I attended an ffxv meetup yesterday and was motivated by some conversations that took place. This AU has been in my head for a while.  
> Anyways god this is so much don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't even look at me i'm so embarrassed.  
> (jk comments are nice, let me know if... this is something you'd like to see more of? tags are a bit sparse until i figure out exactly what i'm doing here)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! Have more trash. Please have mercy I am very embarrassed.

The last prophecy of the Chosen King had occurred long ago. Vague and near-indecipherable, assumptions had been made of various kings and queens throughout the line of Lucis. King Ambrosius had been a very popular candidate in his people’s eyes when, early in his reign, the Scourge seemed to reappear with a strength it didn’t have in the remembrance of the Lucian people. The process of fighting it back had been long and tedious, many priests expending the limits of their gifts. There was no flash or bang of divine justice involved. The Scourge remained, in manageable quantity.  
Ambrosius had not been the Chosen King.

Time had passed, time enough for the people to accept that perhaps that prophecy had been more the stuff of legend than of actual Divine Word. And even so, not all prophecies came to pass. Sometimes, the circumstances they described could be avoided. And it had been a long, long time since daemons and the Scourge posed a serious threat to the Kingdoms of Eos. One still had to be suitably wary while travelling at night, of course, and avoid it when possible. Stay clean. Maintain the Old Runes that protected cities and resting points.

But if the Six wanted to remind their faithful of a reckoning, of a savior, then surely a Prophet would have spoken of it once more.

\---

“My Queen.”

“Ignis! How very good to see you!”

Priest Queen Lunafreya had been in Lestallum for a month, tending to the sick there, overseeing new construction (a ward added to the Temple of Bahamut for those with no one to care for them while they healed), and spending time to know the needs of her people. However, with so many visiting dignitaries in Insomnia, she returned now to grace the halls of the Citadel and to fulfill her obligations as Queen.  
Now, standing in the antechamber to her and Noctis’s quarters, her presence seemed as though it brought with it new life, an energy to the air.

Ignis felt more than heard her move towards him, and he moved his cane out of the way for the greeting that was sure to come. With no preamble she was before him, and as he ducked his head she kissed his cheek, warm and solid.

“You look the same as ever!” She exclaimed as she pulled away from him, a smile in her voice he could not see yet, and Ignis smiled in return.

“It’s only been a month, my lady. If I were to age in that time, I’d be consulting Petra.”

“Well, to me it seems longer. Come, tell me what you’ve been up to while Noctis wakes.”

She led them both to soft seats, and Ignis removed his blindfold.

Ah, she was radiant as ever. Clothed in white with several layers, simple and yet befitting of her station. The opposite of the typical dark wear here, including Ignis’s own closed-throat cassock he wore today. Her hair had yet to be made, and it fell softly past her shoulders.  
That was the first note his eyes made as they blinked to adjust to the light and her smiling face.  
Nothing in this room had changed, save one of Noctis’s distinctive cloaks tossed over a chair. It’d possibly been tossed there last night, left in a rush. Lunafreya followed his gaze and caught sight of it.

“Oh! Don’t chide him when he comes in, Ignis. Our rooms can stand to look at least a little as though we live in them.”

At that, Ignis let out something of a self-reproaching chuckle. He’d intended to point it out as soon as Noct stepped in. Lunafreya knew him too well.  
A servant would be by to straighten it up soon regardless, and he took comfort in that.

Surprisingly, it was Noctis who stepped in from the bedroom before anyone else arrived, bedraggled but awake as he interrupted their warm chatter. A King by the way he held himself, but not by the state of his hair.  
“Ah, conspiring this early in the morning?”  
“Not anymore, my dear.”  
The three caught up, mostly for Lunafreya’s sake, before moving to one of the adjacent rooms.

Just off the throne room, there was a space dedicated for a prophet’s Seeing, a separate room of dark stone, with a great pyre. This room was used in official ceremonies, or special occasions.  
The one attached to the King’s living quarters was smaller, more personal. The pyre was smaller, but serviceable. It was used whenever the King so desired his prophet to See, without the need for pomp or ceremony.  
For a long time, Noctis often called Ignis to consult with him, to be his friend, but not so much to See. Perhaps Noct considered Sight a burden (and it was, to some extent), but even Ignis had grown restless with his gift not being used, and so he’d advised his then Prince to use the resources at his disposal for the safety of the people of Eos.  
For some years now, he’d officially seen for his King about once a month.  
That was better. Better for his own sense of usefulness, and for the safety of those around them. Circumstances shifted. New events were planned and put into motion. One had to be prepared.

“My Sight to your service.” Ignis spoke the traditional opening to the rite, an echo of his first vow, as he walked past Noct and Luna to seat himself carefully before the pyre.

“My hall your home.” Noctis responded, voice quiet as he held Luna loosely.

Ignis Looked.

The flames licked and spat merrily, bright and hungry.  
Nothing at first.  
Then,  
_a snake_  
appeared,  
_a snake,_  
and

Nothing more, as Ignis Looked on. A minute passed and he sighed, sat up and began placing his blindfold over his eyes once more.  
“I found the Infernian ambiguous today. But I believe we should watch for unusual behavior among our own this month.”  
Before the cloth fit over his face, he caught the beginnings of a frown on Noctis’s face.  
“Dissent?”  
Ignis considered this as he finished the knot behind his head, his world becoming comfortably dark once more.  
“… Possibly. All I saw was a snake.”  
Without more context, any symbolism there was too thinly spread. A snake could mean many things, and no indication had been given as to whether the Seen was a warning, an indication of what to do, or any number of other things.

Noctis clicked his tongue in displeasure.  
“Perhaps we should start by searching the fields, then.”  
Ignis heard a light swat, immediately followed by a soft noise from his King.  
“ _Thank you_ , Ignis.” Lunafreya spoke, and Ignis smiled. “Perhaps we might see to it that the Glaive are given more appreciation beginning this month, to start. Heartier rations to those patrolling our borders.”  
Well. That wouldn’t hurt in any case.  
“I think that wise.”  
“Very.” Noctis spoke now, serious once again. Ignis nodded and began walking towards them and the door.  
“If that will be all for this morning, your Majesties, I know you’ve both a meeting with an Altissian dignitary in an hour. I’ll leave you to it.”

A hand caught his arm as he walked by, firm but friendly. He paused.  
“Iggy.” Noct said. “Thanks.”  
Ignis smiled.

\---

“My, what a coincidence to catch you here! Ambassador Ardyn Izunia of Niflheim. I’ve been told it’s polite here in Lucis to introduce yourself by name, even to prophets.”  
Ignis frowned.

The man from yesterday, Ardyn, seemed intent on making himself impertinent. His voice, in high spirits that rang insincere, was grating. Oh, what dreams could make appear enticing…  
**No.** No. He would not think of that.

They were in the Greenhouse. Ignis had stopped by to collect clippings for study and drawing. A young attendant, Navis, stood by him, holding a small cup of clippings already collected, and scissors.

“Ambassador. I thought you had business in the Royal Archives?” He shouldn’t have spoken at all. He should have given another clipped parting and left. At least he would have liked to. But that would not set a good example to Navis on how to treat visiting dignitaries, and the girl did not need to be aware of any excessive rudeness on his part.  
His voice did not have to be warm, it merely had to be steady. He would collect another clipping and leave.

“The scrolls aren’t going anywhere! And I’m hardly chained to a desk. That doesn’t agree with me, you see. Neither does it you, it would appear. Are you an herbalist in your free time?”

“Master Scientia’s studies are wonderful! He’s an accomplished artist!” Navis chirped up from beside him. Ignis almost bit his tongue as he tensed. 

“Is he?” Amused curiosity evident in his voice, Ignis heard Ardyn lower himself. Was he bowing? “Ah, it seems I’ve been remiss in my manners once again! My name is Ardyn Izunia, my lady. How do you do?”

Navis was flattered, that much was obvious as she stuttered over her reply, wondering at this lofty greeting from someone far beyond her station.  
It all rang false. Or at least, exaggerated to the point of ridicule. But Navis, naïve as she was, didn’t recognize it. Ignis was almost certain the man preferred she leave.

“Allow me, Lady Navis.” The sound of a metal clinking against the glass cup of clippings (Ardyn was wearing a ring then, or several), and of scissors being taken. Yes, there it was. Navis began to complain.

Ignis could have stopped it, could have insisted that Ardyn had something better to do, that this was Navis’s task, or that he didn’t need any more clippings after all and bid them farewell.  
He stayed silent. Still. Gripping his cane in thought.

“Now now,” Ardyn put an end to her protests, “This is easy enough, I can help the good Prophet in this endeavor. I believe I just heard a visitor step in who may need a tour of the place.”  
And yes, Ignis could hear them too, a couple starting to whisper quietly over the variety of plants.  
Ardyn had the devil’s own luck. Navis hesitantly left the two of them to their own devices to attend to the other pair, while Ignis stood still.

“Now then!” The Ambassador said, chipper, lightly clinking the scissors to the cup twice as if to remind Ignis of the new responsibility he’d taken. He sounded pleased. Ignis did not know what the other man looked like. Taller, for certain, considering the location of his voice. Dressed in many layers. As of yesterday, at least, in desperate need of a shave. A shadowy, uncertain figure stood in his mind’s eye. The one assumption he was almost certain of? A smug grin. “What did you need next? Orange root? The flowers look particularly robust today. Or perhaps Maid’s Dress? You can’t see it now, poor dear, but the buds have opened beautifully.” Ignis felt his jaw twitch. “The rosehip is also-”  
Did the man not know how to stop talking?

“A sprig of Cat’s Tongue, if you would.”

There was no reaction to his being interrupted. “Of course! Just point me in the direction-”

Ignis raised his cane up with a sudden flourish. To his estimation, it was a scant inch or two from the man’s nose. Ardyn quieted.

“That way, Ambassador. Between the fig tree and the mint.”

He heard the man let out a breath through his nose.  
“Thank you, Prophet Scientia.”  
The man’s voice had gone deeper, but there was still humor in his tone. The childish part of Ignis wanted to glare, but the effect would have been lost somewhat with the blindfold on.  
_Remove it, then._  
Surprised at himself, Ignis shoved the thought down, down, down. They were walking now, and Ardyn had begun to speak once more.

“I must say, the Greenhouse here is incredible. Such a diversity and rarity of plants!”

“I imagine you’ve nothing like this back home, sir.” Ignis replied, and Ardyn surprised him by laughing. Why was the man always laughing?

“No, not at all! I’m afraid grey and drab is the fashion in dear old Niflheim. We’ve some hardy plants, I suppose. Like the people. A little cold and brittle.” A theatrical sigh as his pace slowed slightly, and then a sudden perk of the voice. “Not like Insomnia! The city that never sleeps, is it not? So full of life. And _good_ people.”

Ignis wasn’t sure what to make of this turn in conversation, without a face to read.

“We’ve good and bad, just like anywhere else, I assure you.”

“Ah, _qui dormit non peccat_ , no? Well, certainly you’ve your own evils, but don’t deny the beauty here. I’m a little jealous, to be frank.” Here the man stopped talking for a significant pause while the came to a halt, and Ignis realized it for what it was; he could feel Ardyn’s eyes on him. It had the air of flirtation to it. Bad enough to scoff at. What was this man playing at?

“Careful, Ambassador.” Ignis used his hand to gesture softly around them. “Many of the beauties here have a nasty sting.”

“Oh, I’m certainly counting on it.”

It was textbook. The man had no shame, and only the unfortunately attractive timbre of his voice saved him from having no art. Ignis huffed as he heard Ardyn kneel, no doubt for the Cat’s Tongue. Was he being treated thus because he was not officially a part of the nobility or royalty? Prophets were essentially a part of the clergy, more or less… but his position was venerable, thanks to Noct’s insistence. Past prophets had not all been so lucky to have the friendship of their Kings and Queens.  
Still, _his_ position as Noctis’s Prophet afforded him respect.

“That was weak, sir.”

The sound of a snip, and of shifting cloth. Perhaps Ardyn had shrugged. “You gave me a flimsy opening.”

“You’re impertinent. I wonder whether you form part of a cultural committee at all.”

“My! Feel free to investigate. I have papers that I’ll have sent to you, and you can have someone confirm with Commander Uldor. The _last_ thing I want is to cause scandal!”

“Is it? Then what are you doing here?”

Another snip, and now the shifting indicated Ardyn was standing. “Didn’t I tell you already? Youth these days.” He began to sing-song. “In one ear, out the other. I’m studying Lucian customs, to report back-”

“No. _Here_.” Ignis emphasized, tapping his cane onto the path before him. Ardyn was playing with him, and the younger man was fighting to keep a steady composure. “Insisting on collecting plants for me. Shaming yourself by associating too warmly above your station.”

“Oh, _that_.” Ardyn replied, as easily as if Ignis had pointed out something as insignificant as a loosened button. “I’ll answer that if you answer a question of mine. Why did you let me? You could have insisted that girl to continue helping you instead.”

Ignis clenched his fists on the pommel of his cane. “I wanted to judge your character.”

“Ah, but it seemed you’d made up your mind before even allowing me the honor of assisting you? Still, if it was not sufficient, I’m glad. You’re thinking of me. I like that.”

Ignis _fumed_. Before he could open his mouth, Ardyn pressed on.

“You want to know why I’m here if I don’t want to cause scandal? Very well.” The scrape of gravel beneath them alerted Ignis first, then the sudden warmth and close sound of fabric. The smell of ash again. Ardyn was standing close in front of him, too close, but Ignis bit his tongue, kept his head slightly bowed, stood his ground, and dearly hoped the warmth he could feel crawling up his neck was not visible. It almost seemed like the world around them quieted, no other sound to be heard now except for Ardyn’s low tones. “No scandal is necessary when people are discreet. And I’m here because you look so _stuffy_ , Prophet Scientia. I’d like to show you that a Niflheimir can be appreciative of the work that you do.” The cup of plant clippings was pushed by his fingers, and Ignis tensed as he clasped it. “I think you’re much too respected here for someone to offer you fellatio, for instance, when it seems to me you deserve something that’ll rid you of your burden of high airs, even if only for a night. How would you like me to-”

Ardyn didn’t finish. Ignis’s cane came in harsh contact with his stomach first. He stepped away as the Ambassador bowed over and gave a low groan of pain that turned into strangled laugh.

Even as Ignis strode away with cup of clippings in hand, no word of parting uttered this time, he felt himself tremble.

**EDIT 6/12/18: SO I'm ending this, mostly because I don't like how I've written these two here, and I don't think I have the skill to pull off what I was imagining in my head. The concept was sort of getting away from me.  
A summary of what I had planned: Ardyn attempts to seduce Ignis to no avail, but as they get to know each other through that awkward process, Ignis does find appeal in the older man. Ardyn was trying to get info from prophets all throughout history (for the Prophecy of the chosen one), but at the sight of him, the madness of Ifrit pushes through and drives the Prophets themselves mad. Ardyn begins to find it difficult to want to attempt to do this to Ignis. Complicated story details, some amorous moments, rebellion against gods, and a happy ending.  
It's trash. But here we are. And here we end. Sorry, and thanks!**


End file.
